


Under the Horizontal Snow

by satb31



Series: 1,000 Follower Giveaway Fics [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Developing Relationship, M/M, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:56:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1312315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly and Combeferre are traveling together and get caught in a snowstorm, which results in them spending the night together at an inn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Horizontal Snow

**Author's Note:**

> For tumblr user combeferriswheel, based on the following prompt: "I'mm a fan of your Joly, so Joly/Combeferre Modern AU, fluff and cuddles maybe?"
> 
> The title comes from Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Snow Storm.

Combeferre doesn’t drive.

It’s not that Combeferre can’t operate a vehicle — just like most teenagers, he went out with his parents and drove their car around the elementary school parking lot — but he has an ongoing dispute with the Registry about a factual error on the written test, so he doesn’t have an actual driver’s license. So when the he and Joly are scheduled to attend a medical conference in Montreal in March, it falls to Joly to rent the car and do the driving.

Combeferre doesn’t want to admit it to their friends, but he’s excited about the trip — partially because he constantly wants to learn more, and partially because he will get to spend five whole days with Joly. He and Joly have been friends for a long time — through the comprehensive exams and the gross anatomy class and the long hours at the hospital — and they’ve developed an ease around each other where they finish each other’s sentences and pick lint off each other’s sweaters.

He watched from afar as Joly fell in and out of love with Bossuet and Musichetta, although he himself has only been in love once in his life — a brief dalliance with their friend Grantaire that ended badly when Grantaire finally admitted he was in love with someone else. He’s been reluctant to try again, keeping his heart close to him, not wanting to expose it to danger again.

His friendship with Joly is not the kind of friendship where they confide intimacies. Yet deep down, in places he doesn’t even want to admit to himself, the idea of intimacy with Joly intrigues him.

**

The trip starts out smoothly — Joly picks up Combeferre and they bomb up I-93 toward New Hampshire on a Thursday evening after class, managing to avoid most of the traffic hassles that plague that stretch of highway. The clouds hang low over the mountains in the distance as the sun sets — it looks like it could snow, but the forecasts are vague.

Joly hooks up his phone to the car’s stereo system, and the jangling chords of Mumford and Sons fill the car. Combeferre reaches into his bag and pulls out a book. “How can you read in the car?” Joly asks, glancing over at him . “I would be so carsick if I even tried.”

Combeferre smiles at him, says nothing, and returns to his reading.

Somewhere north of Manchester snowflakes start flying, and Joly clutches the steering wheel a little tighter and tenses his foot over the brake. The snow keeps intensifying as they turn off onto I-89, and Joly turns the windshield wipers on, peering into the darkness as the flakes seem to be flying directly at his face. Combeferre looks up from his book at the sound of the wiper blades rubbing against glass.

“You okay, Joly?” he asks, looking at Joly’s squinted eyes and his brow contorted with worry — already knowing the answer.

“I’m fine,” Joly replies through gritted teeth, as he flips off the music.

The next hour feels like five, as the roads get worse and Joly’s tension is almost palpable. Combeferre puts away his book and starts talking — about school, about politics, about their friends, about anything he knows will help Joly relax.

But the snow keeps coming, and Joly’s knuckles are as white as the drifts that are already piling up on the side of the road. As they cross the border into Vermont, Combeferre finally suggests they pull off and find a place to stay. He checks his phone and locates a country inn off the next exit — and calls to reserve their one available room.

And as they exit the highway, Joly finally exhales.

**

The guest room is small and filled with bric-a-brac from a variety of eras — the proprietor apologizes because it’s the smallest room they have, and that it only has one bed, but Combeferre assures her it’s fine as he takes the key. Joly puts his suitcase on the dresser, takes off his parka and throws it on a chair, and sits stiffly on the four poster bed, chewing his thumbnail.

“Do you want me to get something to drink?” Combeferre asks, tossing his own bag in the corner and hanging up his coat carefully. His doctor’s instinct is kicking in — he needs to find the cure for what ails Joly right now.

Joly nods, still gnawing on his thumb, and Combeferre wanders down the hall to the common room, where the inn has a refrigerator stocked with sodas and snacks. He fetches a can of ginger ale and pours it into two glasses, dropping some ice cubes in each glass. He returns to the room and hands Joly his drink, taking a seat next to him on the bed.

“Cheers,” he says, touching his glass to Joly’s and taking a long sip. “They say ginger ale is good for nausea, you know,” Combeferre says helpfully.

Joly glares back at him. “I’m not pregnant, I was just driving on crappy roads,” he snaps. “And besides, you’re supposed to let it go flat first.”

Combeferre shrugs. “I know,” he says in a calm, measured tone — Grantaire called it his healing voice. “You just looked a little green, that’s all,” he explains.

Joly swirls his glass around, then takes a drink. “God, I hate driving in the snow.” Joly complains. “I just know I’m going to drive off the road and end up dying in a ditch somewhere.” He squirms a little, trying to stretch, clearly still a bit frazzled.

And suddenly Combeferre knows what he needs to do, what he wants to do.

And what he’s wanted to do for years — but never knew he did.

“Let me help,” Combeferre offers, taking Joly’s glass from him and getting up to put the glasses on the nightstand. He returns to the bed and sits behind Joly, pressing his cool fingers to the nape of his neck and feeling him shiver ever so slightly. Joly’s head lolls forward as Combeferre starts to knead his shoulder muscles, which are taut with stress-induced tension. “Relax,” he whispers in Joly’s ear, as he works his long fingers down Joly’s spine.

Combeferre decides to take a risk — and kisses Joly in the sweet spot where his neck meets his collarbone.

And a low moan emits from the back of Joly’s throat.

Encouraged, Combeferre slides his hands under Joly’s shirt, feeling his skin under his hands. He’s so slender Combeferre can feel every vertebrae, every rib. He continues to nuzzle Joly’s neck, inhaling his scent.

Joly pulls away from him abruptly, and Combeferre’s heart is suddenly in his throat, thinking that perhaps he has gone too far. Perhaps this isn’t what Joly wants after all — it’s too quick, it’s too sudden, he’s too nervous.

But Joly turns toward Combeferre, cups his cheek in his hand, and looks him directly in the eye.

And after what seems like a lifetime, Joly leans toward Combeferre, a trace of a smirk on his lips, and gives him a kiss that is at once so gentle and yet so yearning.

And Combeferre knows already that the risk was worth it.

**

The next morning dawns bright — the snow has stopped, and now the sun is streaming through the windows of the inn, its rays intensified by the reflection on the drifts below. Combeferre awakens first, blinking against the brightness, at first not entirely sure where he is.

But he looks to his left and sees Joly, sprawled on his stomach, one long pale leg jutting out from under the duvet. His eyes are closed and Combeferre feels sure he is smiling in his sleep.

And the previous night’s memories come flooding back to him — memories of the storm outside and of the tempest inside — and Combeferre sighs contentedly.

Joly stirs then, murmuring sleepily, “What time is it?”

Combeferre wraps his body around Joly’s, burrowing his face in his mussed brown hair. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, for once in his life not knowing and not caring.

And as they got back in the car and resumed their trip — 15 minutes after their checkout time — Combeferre doesn’t take out his book, instead spending his time watching Joly, touching his arm and listening to him laugh at himself and his nervous driving the night before.

Combeferre still doesn’t drive.

But right now he thinks he’d like to be a passenger here forever.


End file.
